


Knock Twice

by DustToDust



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Don’t copy to another site, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 08:51:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19353607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustToDust/pseuds/DustToDust
Summary: Trevor's got a nice slab of meat searing on the stove, an unopened bottle of finely aged scotch, and some ridiculously expensive seasoning salt in hand when the first demon kicks the cabin door in. It's not even a contest really until he slips on the pretentious as fuck marble flooring of the empty summerhouse he's squatting in.





	Knock Twice

**Author's Note:**

> I need to finish the series first before I can decide where or how this is going, but this ate my mind up. Right now it just feels like it's going to be a bunch of interconnected drabbles/shorts set in a modern AU with the supernatural being present but ignored by most of the world. Maybe one fic for them all, or just a collection in chronological order as they get written? I don't know, but Sypha wants her own Youtube channel to spread the word of everything she discovers and I'm still trying to wrap my head around that.

“So let me see if I’ve got this right,” Sheriff Walden eventually drawls, his dark eyes glinting as he pauses to take another long glance through the wrecked cabin. The silence is almost uncomfortable but Trevor’s still floating on some nice little pain pills and doesn’t mind it one bit.

He’s always gone back and forth on if the guy actually knows about the things that bump and growl in the night, or if he’s every bit as ignorant as anyone else in the damned town. Most of the time Trevor’s pretty sure he’s clueless, but every once in a while the old bastard pulls something out that absolutely convinces him the Sheriff’s playing oblivious just to fuck with Trevor.

“A rabid, wounded deer got tangled up in your lit grill, and in it’s panic smashed down the front door before managing to drag itself and the grill all the way to the kitchen forcing you kill it with a steak knife after it raked it’s antlers across your face,” The man’s hard stare follows the very clear path of clawed up flooring to the still gory kitchen, detouring to the garbage bags of demonic ashen remains, and the charcoal grill that has a suspiciously boot shaped indent --not Trevor’s brightest idea, sure, but he’d been in pain and out of time for a coverup-- on it by the door. He lingers on the nightmare that’s the mop bucket Trevor’d abandoned to answer questions a bit before turning to Trevor once again. “ _Really?_ ”

There’s enough salt in the Sheriff’s voice to cure a whole ham, and Trevor can’t stop himself from grinning as he corrects the man on the most important part of the story, “Meat fork, actually.”

A meat fork along with some stupid expensive gourmet salt, and a cast iron skillet Sypha had gotten blessed for reasons she never saw fit to explain. Trevor’s sure he owes her another dozen rare artifacts or ancient books for it though.

“Hell, son,” Walden finally grumbles after another long stare and silence routine. He rubs a hand over his thin hair and glares down at his tiny notepad before scribbling something down. “You don’t make this easy do you?”

“Make what easy, Sheriff?” Trevor tries to sound innocent and blameless, but probably only manages to sound like some slimy salesman. He reaches up to tap at the tape holding gauze to the left side of his face that’s obscuring his vision just enough to be annoying. “It’s God’s honest truth, ‘s far as I can remember anyway. It’s kinda hazy to me. Probably due to almost getting stabbed in the eye.”

“Right, let’s call it the adrenaline and fear,” Walden pings his pen pointedly against the glass neck of a bottle of scotch that had most certainly not been opened before the attack. After? Hell yes, a man deserved something to try and numb the pain of winning against two demons breaking in on him.

“And who did you say was the kind soul who came in a dragged the deer carcass off for you while you were getting stitched up?” Walden pressed.

“Must’ve been Greg,” Trevor deflects and wonders how badly it’d go if he were to get himself a glass of whiskey right now. The nice little pills still have him, but he can already tell its going to wear off long before he can take any more. Might not go over too bad if he gets two glasses. Walden’s as much an alcoholic as anyone else in the place.

“Greg’s visiting family on the coast,” Walden quickly retorts throwing out Trevor’s easiest excuse.

“Fuck, I don’t know then,” Trevor easily switches without flinching. A lifetime of skirting around the truth makes it hard to trip him. “Maybe it was one of Duggie’s boys. You know they never pass up a chance to get fresh meat out of season. What’s it matter who took the dead animal?”

Or a chance to get their noses and sticky fingers into anything they think might be profitable or at least interesting. A good enough excuse for a boatload of petty crimes and vandalism as far as most people were concerned. Any of Duggie’s ever changing lot were good for off loading things onto. Blame, excuses, slightly questionable goods, absolutely shady as fuck ones too. They were good for anything really except being moral, upstanding people who wouldn’t stab you in the back first chance they got. At least they were honest about it though, a lovely contrast to many people Trevor could name.

“Doesn’t to me,” Walden shrugs before flipping his notepad closed and surveying the room once again with a shaking head. “I’ve already got the Marl family lawyers breathing down my neck over this one, Trevor. Just trying to get all the ducks lined up. You know how these rich sorts get about their places. I’ve got to show a by the dots investigation or they’ll bring their own people in.”

Trevor grimaces at the thought. 

It’s a thin line he walks squatting in the hunting lodges and cosy little cabins tucked away in the forested mountains. He’s been doing it long enough that his story is firmly entrenched in both the minds of the locals and the rich people who only see the place once a year for a few weeks at a time. To the people who pay an obscene amount of money to vacation there, he's got a successful lot of vineyards around Lupu, and no reason to not run them from the comfort of his own home which is vaguely around the mountains somewhere. To the locals, Trevor’s a hard working caretaker that keeps the rich people’s places from being run down by being completely abandoned in the off seasons. 

It’s a fiction that works because the maintenance and care of a fucking cabin isn’t something most rich people even consider. Or if they do, they probably just think the mountains have a magic fairy that goes around waving a wand to keep their cabins free of pests because no one’s caught him out in the ten years he’s been running around the area.

“Yeah, yeah,” Trevor waves it all away because he _does_ know how they get. He also knows that it’ll only take a quick call to Brent to get his dear old dad’s lawyers to back off a bit and accept the story spun up for them. Their innate sense for finding weaknesses and faults no match for their employers’ natural inclination to believe the words of a good friend over anything as inconsequential as facts. “I’ll make sure to call and give the facts straight to them as well.”

At least Trevor has an open invitation to be in _this_ cabin. The pretenses will be flimsy, but it’s not the worst position he’s found himself in over the years. He’s confident that he can bullshit his way out of it easily enough. Especially if he can get the more questionable parts of the mess cleaned up before anyone comes to see the place with their own eyes.

“Need me for anything else, Sheriff?” Trevor asks because if lawyers are already involved then it won’t be long before an insurance assessor makes their way out to the place, and Trevor’s still got the kitchen to cleanse of any signs of unholy taint before then.

“Nah,” Walden untucks his hat from his back pocket and draws it down snug over his eyes. He tucks his thumbs into his belt and most of the hardness has faded from his eyes as he ambles out the door. “It’s the damnedest thing though. Your’s is the second deer attack I’ve had to look at this week. I was hoping to see if it really _was_ something like a rabies outbreak, but the deer was disposed of before we could test it in the other case too.”

There’s no door to shut behind the man, so Trevor waits until he can hear the slam of a car door to swear. “Well, shit.”


End file.
